A Story of Blood
by Crow3
Summary: The search for a mysterious relic pits Auror Ginny Weasley against a deadly foe.
1. Prologue

**A Story of Blood**  
by Crow

_Disclaimer: This story is for personal use only. The characters and situations belong to J. K. Rowling, with the exception of Mirat and Sirin Abi, who belong to the author. No money is being made._

**Prologue**  
_Nicomedia, Turkey, 1112 A.D._

Every day precisely at noon the men would come. Merchants from Italy, they showed up at Najara's door, first with exotic gifts and sweet words, rich foods and spices, fine wools and silks suitable for weaving. They had traveled many dangerous miles to this remote town, they told her, to purchase a small object they believed she would never miss.

And when Najara refused to sell, the merchants' demeanor changed. They did not like the small, arid town, these merchants with their red silk _tunicas_ trimmed in gold brocade. They did not like being refused, especially by a woman who fed herself and her daughter by the loom. Their words lost their former eloquence, became short and demanding. Even their very knocks on the door betrayed their contempt for her.

And still Najara refused to sell.

So, when the knock sounded on her door again, Najara wasn't surprised. Until, she noticed the knock was respectful this time. She exchanged glances with her daughter, Roma, who she had been teaching how to carefully dye and spin the wool. 

"Go to the other room. Stay quiet," she instructed, and without a word Roma hurried to the adjacent room, pushing aside the rough wool blanket that separated the two rooms and letting it fall behind her.

Curious, Najara walked to the door and opened it. Instead of the two surly merchants she had come to expect, there stood an impeccably dressed woman with her two retainers. The lady was dressed in a simple green _stola_, the linen cloth draped around her comely figure, a hood covering her hair. The woman's arms were adorned with silver bracelets and armbands. An intricate asp chocker showcased a long, slender neck. The woman reached up and pulled the hood from her head. Her ebony hair was swept up and away from her face, with silver braiding entwined throughout it. The woman was beautiful, with warm brown eyes and a friendly smile.

"Hello," a melodious voice issued from rose-colored lips. "I hope I have not come at an inopportune time." Najara shook her head no and beckoned the lady to enter. The woman smiled, then turned to the men behind her and spoke a few words, too low for Najara to catch. They nodded their heads and took positions on each side of the house, facing the road.

Najara closed the door behind the lady and for the first time noticed her how shabby her house must look to this woman, the simple wooden table, the few, worn pots and dried herbs hanging from the mantle, the meager stores of food—and the offerings from the merchants, tossed carelessly in the corner near the fireplace. 

The lady gracefully made her way over to the standing loom, reaching out to touch the burnt orange, black, and gold threads weaving their diamond design. "This is quiet lovely," she complemented Najara. "It's been years since I wove a carpet like this," she said wistfully.

"You, my lady? Are you from this area?" Najara boldly asked. 

The woman smiled and nodded her head. "My sister and I were born in Constantinople. We moved to Naples when I married." Najara motioned for the lady to sit at the table before taking her place across from her. "But I am being rude. My name is the Countessa Mirat di Borghese, but please call me Mirat. May I call you Najara?"

Najara nodded her head in agreement, and Mirat continued. "The merchants who have been coming to see you work for my husband, but I could tell that you were too shrewd for them. We were accomplishing nothing but wasting time." She favored Najara with a conspiratorial smile. "I thought it was time for the ladies to talk."

"I am no lady," Najara protested, "and I am not trying to be 'shrewd,' as you say. I am afraid that the answer is the same for you as it was for your men. I cannot sell the flask."

Mirat waved a dismissive hand. "There is time enough for that discussion later. First, tell me about the item."

"My lady…" Najara began.

"Mirat," the lady corrected with a firm tone.

"Mirat, if you want the item so much, then I am sure that you do not need me to tell you about it."

Mirat gave a short smile. "And you say you are not shrewd," she declared. When Najara opened her mouth to protest, Mirat held up a hand to stop her. "Please, I meant nothing by that. And you are correct, I do know a great deal about the relic's history and background. But you, my dear, possess a familial history of the piece. Your family has cared for it for over 300 years, correct?" Najara nodded her head reluctantly. "I would be most interested in hearing your story, Najara."

Najara hesitated. Her guest's demeanor was nothing but polite and interested, but suddenly she caught a glimpse of something else, something ruthless, predatory. Her mind raced, thinking about Roma in the other room, trying to figure out how to best protect the relic and her daughter. Perhaps she could convince the woman that the flask needed to remain with Najara, where it would be safe.

"You want to know about the relic? Over three hundred years ago a brave and noble young man from this very village became the physician of Emperor Galerius Maximan," Najara paused and looked out the open window, past the two retainers standing guard outside her house, past the rolling hills and green fields. From across time, she heard her mother's voice telling a young Najara a story of the blood, a story passed from mother to daughter for many generations.

"St. Pantaleon's skill as a physician was unrivaled. Being a pious man, he began to distribute his wealth and possessions to the poor Christians of Nicomedia, spending as many hours treating the poor as he did the Emperor and his courtesans. Pantaleon sought no glory or riches, but his fame increased, causing his fellow physicians to become jealous and plot his overthrow.

"The Emperor, who owed his life countless times to Pantaleon's miraculous skill, secretly begged Pantaleon to flee persecution, but Pantaleon refused. He and two of his closest companions were arrested. His friends were beheaded, each refusing to renounce the brave physician, but Pantaleon's ordeal would last one more day. He was subjected to indescribable torture—six different attempts were made on his life."

"Yes, yes," Mirat interrupted. "Pantaleon's captors tried to kill him by burning, molten lead, drowning, wild beasts, the wheel, and the sword." She leaned toward Najara, like a close friend ready to share a particularly delicious secret. "Is this really true? Why could Pantaleon not be killed?" Najara blinked in confusion. "My lady…his life was spared then because he was favored in the eyes of our Lord." Disgust crossed the graceful features of the other woman. "Yes, yes," she muttered, in agreement and waved Najara on. "Continue."

"The Lord chose to end Pantaleon's trials the next day when he was beheaded, like his friends. During his public persecution, his blood was collected in a flask by one of my ancestors, a woman who recognized the divine spark in the martyr. For over 300 years, the blood has been passed down from mother to daughter in my family. It is truly a miracle of God—a miracle that must be protected from those who would try to exploit its divine powers," Najara finished, giving the other woman a direct look.

Mirat seemed unconcerned. "Yes, a noble gift indeed. How quick thinking of your ancestress to collect the blood of a martyr, even before it grew cold."

"My ancestress was an honorable and devout woman."

"But of course, of course. Devout…as you are."

"I am but a humble servant of our Lord. It is my job to keep the relic safe, as one day it will be my daughter Roma's job to do the same."

Mirat's eyes narrowed. "Yes, I can see you are dedicated to your mission." She stood up and walked over to the mantle, picking up a cloth doll of Roma's. She looked over to the next room, smiled at the quick jerk and shuffle as little feet moved hastily away from the curtain. 

"And I am sure you are also a good mother, as well as a humble servant of God. But I must have the relic, and I am running out of time" Mirat dropped the doll and pulled out a long, slender wooden stick from the folds of her dress, pointing it at Najara. 

"_Imperius_," she barked. Najara jerked and remained sitting, fixing a blank stare on Mirat. "Now you must obey me, Najara. Is the relic here, in this house?" A voice inside Najara's mind screamed, but she slowly, painfully, nodded her head in agreement.

"Get it for me," Mirat commanded and Najara was forced to obey, heading to the bin where she kept the potatoes and onions, digging around until her hand hit the wooden box. She pulled it out and handed it to Mirat, who reverently opened the box, her fingers caressing the velvet encased flask inside. She pulled out the ornate flask, ruby colored blood swishing inside—the blood of a martyr 300 hundred years old.

Something inside of Najara's mind broke, and she felt her will returning, fear driving her to reach for the box. "No, I will die before I see the relic used for evil," she cried. Mirat snarled and pointed the wand again. 

"So be it," she said. "_Avada Kedavra_." Najara saw a flash of green, then she knew no more.

**...**

Mirat stood transfixed, ignoring the dead woman in front of her, holding the flask to the light coming in the windows, watching color bounce off the ruby liquid. _After all this time_, she thought, when suddenly a bundle of rags knocked into her, the girl, running to tend to her dead mother. _How quaint._

She paid little attention to the girl's sobs as she walked over to the door, opened it, and walked out. The men moved toward her. "Were you successful, my lady?" the older man asked.

"Yes," Mirat informed him, holding the box close to her chest. "We leave for Italy tonight."

"What shall we do with the child?"

"The world does not need another orphan. Burn down the house," Mirat instructed, moving toward the carriage waiting for her. She stopped and turned back. "But bring me the unfinished carpet and the supplies," she said. The man nodded, walked inside the house, and closed the door behind him.

**...**

Many days later, Mirat arrived in Italy, physically exhausted from her travels, but her mind racing with the possibilities now open to her. She yearned to head to the quiet of her solarium to think. Instead, a very aggrieved man stood on the curving marble steps waiting for her.

"What took you so long?" he demanded as soon as she entered through the large double doors. Mirat sighed and looked up at the Counte Azzo di Borghese, her husband these past seven years.

Mirat smoothed down a crease in her red silk _tunica_, ignoring his outburst. "Hello, husband. I missed you too."

"You were supposed to be back almost a fortnight ago," he demanded.

"Your men were incompetent. I had to step in and handle the situation myself."

Azzo strode angrily down the stairs. "Then you should have stepped in sooner wife," he sneered. "In your absence, your sister was caught in the church graveyard, again, trying to dig up the body of the magistrate's seven-year-old daughter," he said in disgust. 

Mirat raised an eyebrow. "My condolences to the magistrate and his wife."

Azzo stamped his feet in disgust. "I had to pledge a new stained glass window for the Church to keep the matter quiet. Do you know how much such a window costs?"

"I am sure your sacrifice will leave you highly favored in the eyes of our Lord," Mirat murmured with a smile. 

Azzo moved quickly, painfully grabbing her by her forearm and pulling her closer to him. "Do not think for one moment that you are superior to me! I have been benevolent long enough. We must, at least, uphold the smallest vestiges of Christianity. It is your job to keep your sister in line."

Anger flooded over Mirat, but she needed Azzo, his position and fortune provided the protection she and her sister needed. Slowly, but deliberately, she pulled away from him, carefully keeping her eyes averted, striving to look meek. She felt a pounding behind her eyes, another headache coming on.

"Yes, husband. I understand my duty. I will make her obey your wishes."

Azzo reconsidered. "Still, we do not want to upset her too much, so close to the ceremony. She will be able to help, will she not?" he said, rubbing his hands.

"Of course, husband. I am sure her forays into the cemetery were merely preparations for the ritual. As always, I am sure my sister will appreciate your generosity and beneficence." Azzo nodded curtly then turned and walked back up the stairs.

Mirat sighed, wishing again for the sanctuary of her rooms, but instead made her way down the winding stairs and passages leading to the basement of the villa. She came to a thick oak door and knocked, then opened it without waiting for an answer.

"Sister, I see you have returned," said a voice from the darkest reaches of the room. Mirat could barely see anything inside. Meager candlelight illuminated parts of the room, while a small fire offered little respite from the damp chill of the basement. 

"Ever observant, sister," Mirat complimented. By instinct, she walked through the room, avoiding the round table near the door, snorting at the cloying patchouli fumes that hung heavy in the air. Her headache worsened. "Oh, do come out so we can talk. I am not some peasant girl for you to frighten with your theatrics."

A low chuckle moved closer, out of the shadows, and a stooped figure with matted, gray hair stepped into the light. Her clothes were dirty and torn, a rough black shawl was thrown around her shoulders. Sirin Abi leaned heavily against a cane and cocked a head, looking at her sister. She laughed. "And how is your husband today?"

"Irate, as you well know. He is upset by the amount of money he had to spend covering up your latest indiscretion. Could you not, at least, employ the retainers I left at your disposal? They are efficient, and discreet."

"_Pfsish_," her sister snorted and hobbled over to take a seat in the worn leather chairs by the fireplace. "Even your retainers do not know what I need, how to tell the difference between the stomach and the intestines."

Mirat squeezed the bridge of her nose, trying to hold back the pain. "Sister," she explained wearily, "you know where we stand. We have more freedom to pursue our goals than we have ever had before, but we must keep up appearances. We must try to keep Azzo happy."

"Give him a 12-year-old boy, or a sheep, that will keep him happy," Sirin cackled.

Mirat would not rise to the bait. Her sister was, in fact, probably correct. "Be that as it may, we need his support and protection until the potion is complete."

It was Sirin's turn to sigh. "I understand, dear Mirat, but the girl was seven years old. I could not let her intestines go to waste—I needed them for augury." She stopped when she noticed Mirat's pained expression. "I will be more careful. I promise." 

Sirin looked into the fire, then back at her sister, now sitting across from her. "Mirat…" she started.

"Hmm…" Mirat said drowsily, mesmerized by the flames.

"We still agree —- don't we, little one —- that we are not sharing the potion with your husband? There is no guarantee it would even work on his kind; he does not possess magical blood."

Mirat looked sharply at her sister. "As far as I'm concerned, Sirin, the potion is ours. My husband be damned." Mirat rubbed her temples at the sudden flare of pain. She needed rest and quiet. Sirin stood up and walked around her sister's chair. Deftly, she started massaging Mirat's tight shoulders, kneading the knotted muscles, fingers sliding to caress Mirat's collarbones. She leaned close and ran a gnarled finger down Mirat's smooth cheek.

"Your headaches are back, my love. Let me brew your potion so that you may sleep. Sirin is here. I'll take care of you. I'm the only one who can."

Mirat stiffened slightly, then forced herself to relax. She gave Sirin a small smile and grabbed her sister's hand, giving it a squeeze before pointedly moving it away from her. "Yes, Sirin. You have always been good to me. Thank you." She watched Sirin move around the room, gathering the herbs for the potion. As her sister chopped up the ingredients, Mirat asked, "Will everything be ready for the new moon?"

Sirin clucked and mumbled to herself as she measured and threw the ingredients in a black mortar. "There is still much to be done now that the blood is here. So many things still left to be gathered," she shook her head, as if unsure.

_I cannot wait for the next moon_, Mirat thought. "But Sirin," she said, setting her voice low and walking to where her sister stood working. She reached out and touched Sirin's cheek. "I am here now. I can help. I can gather what you need, for I learned by your side how to harvest the flesh and bone under the light of the moon." She smiled as Sirin relaxed under her caress, saw the satisfied smile on her sister's face. "I will tell my husband we need to wait one more month to perform the ritual. That should keep him preoccupied and allow us to do our work and make our escape. This is our time Sirin." Mirat leaned over and kissed the old woman's cheek, managing not to choke on the diseased smell that emanated from the crone. 

**...**

900 years later -- _Could it have really been that long_, she thought -— Mirat sat in a flat in Florence, weaving the black, and gold, and orange threads, tying the knots, carefully following the pattern. She could still vividly recall those last days as the sisters prepared for the ritual. 

All her preparations back then blinded her to a very important fact: Azzo had somehow learned of the sister's intentions to betray him. 

Even now Mirat could close her eyes and remember that night, smell the thick incense, hear Sirin echoing her chants, praying to the Dark Goddess to answer their call as she prepared the potion, using a few precious drops of the blood. Mirat could still feel the power she raised that night, power and will she infused into the holy blood, the will to steal Pantaleon's gift -— the gift of invulnerability from physical harm.

Mirat remembered watching Sirin ladle the strong potion into a cup, offering it first to Mirat to taste and savor. She remembered how her hands shook as she slowly lifted the goblet to her mouth, could almost taste again the bitter, coppery taste of the blood. Then, suddenly, her knees buckled as she felt the magic run through her veins like foxfire. She heard Sirin's triumphant laugh and then…

The door to Sirin's chambers was thrown open as armed guards and clerics strode in. Mirat was grabbed from behind and shoved to the floor, a young soldier holding her down. She remembered Sirin cursing the soldier, then rushing toward Mirat to protect her. She saw the soldier draw his sword, in disgust, not fear, and run Sirin through. She could close her eyes and watch the stooped figure of her sister crumple to the floor, her blood, the color of a martyr's, spreading out from her as her eyes glazed over.

"No," Mirat snapped, at the memory and at her clumsy fingers that missed the pattern, knotting the wrong color thread. A child's mistake, not something she'd usually make.

Even now, she could hear Azzo's footsteps as he walked to her, hear his knees creak as he bent down to look at her face to face for the last time, and whisper to her, unheard by the others. "You believed that you and your sister were so much smarter than me, my little whore? You thought that I was someone to use then toss aside when you were done with me? You belonged to me, and now I will throw you away."

He stood up and walked over to the Monsignor, pausing to spit on Sirin's body. The men laughed, and Azzo helped the clerics gather the relic and stopper the flask. They walked out without looking at her again.

But Mirat wasn't ready to be thrown aside, and it was ridiculously easy for her to use her body to gain her freedom and flee Florence. For the first time in her life, Mirat had been free -- free from her family, free from Azzo, and free from Sirin. Looking back, she supposed she should have thanked Azzo for his unexpected gift.

Now, almost 900 years later, Mirat had claimed her name once again, throwing aside the hundreds of aliases she had used over the years. She had aligned herself with powerful men, wizards and Muggles alike, watching civilizations come and go, power wane and shift. And still she was here.

But now, slowly, the potion was wearing off. She could feel it in her bones, an ache that hadn't been there before, a stiffness in her step, a gray hair in the midst of her black mane. Not much yet, but Mirat hadn't lived this long without understanding that no gift comes without a price. And now it was time to pay that price again.

Knot the gold thread, then the black, then the orange…a different carpet than the one she'd had stolen from Najara's house all those years ago. But that cottage had been the start, and here in Florence it would start again. Once, Mirat had used a powerful man to get what she desired. Now there was a powerful vacuum left in the wizarding world with the death of Lord Voldemort and his most powerful allies. It should be easy to twist a young lord's affections to her will. 

And Mirat knew exactly where to look for the relic, and exactly how she would get it.

To be continued... 


	2. Chapter One

**A Story of Blood**  
by Crow

**Chapter 1**

Ginny Weasley sighed. She reached behind her head and pulled her long red hair away from her damp neck, leaving a few scarlet strands stuck in place. Why was it so unfoundedly hot in here? Obviously the Italians hadn't learned of the use of a well-placed cooling spell, or even a Muggle air conditioner.

The Ufrizi, one of Italy's oldest, most sacred museums and libraries. Ginny gazed upward, eyes skimming along the tall stacks of books, listening to the soft murmur of rustling pages, whispered conversations, the scratch of pens on paper. The library was home to some of the oldest books in Europe, and the scent of age and dust settled on the people inside. Ginny looked up imploringly at the mahogany ceiling fans that did little but circulate hot air. Maybe she should just give up the search for the day; it wasn't like she found anything interesting. She had been trailing gossip and legend for weeks now, and she didn't feel any closer to her target.

When Ginny became an Auror ten years ago, she never imagined that she would spend so much time in libraries and civil offices, reading old journals and letters, combing through wills and deeds that would lead her to her prey, and the dark magical items they kept. In her time, she had recovered cursed gauntlets and jewelry, daggers and paintings, even a particularly devious antimacassarShe had helped hunt down and bring to justice over 100 Death Eaters. She had stood beside Harry Potter's side when he defeated Voldemort. And still…she found herself here, alone, spending more time locked in the past than living in the present.

Usually it didn't bother her much. She had discovered early on that she had a knack for solving puzzles—her mind could piece together bits of information that seemed to have no connection, moving the scattered bits around until she saw the overriding pattern. There was always a pattern. Chaos could be bent to her will. The actions of wizards and witches classified, put in boxes marked good and evil, black and white. It was a talent born out of years of observation, watching silently from the shadows, and never forgetting the baser aspects of human nature. Ginny was hardly ever surprised by how someone would react.

Today, though, Ginny felt frustrated, inpatient. She noticed her knee jumping up and down under the table, saw her fountain pen beating a staccato beat against her leather bound notebook. It was fine and good to track down potentially dangerous magical objects, to observe and predict power shifts, to hunt down the monsters. But now that Voldemort was finally dead, no one in the Ministry would listen to her anymore. And her vacation was almost up.

_Vacation? Surely this isn't what McGregor thought I'd do with my time._ She smiled. After five years of almost non-stop work, Ginny had been ordered to take some time off. But it was hard for her to just let go, to find a life outside of the Ministry walls. Her work left her little time to form lasting relationships with men. Her friends and family were scattered around the world, caught up in their own lives. Her parents, whom she loved dearly, didn't understand the woman their little girl grew up to be.

So, when it came time to take a vacation, the best idea she could come up with was to put some devoted time into a new hobby of hers: tracking Luna Lovegood's 900-year-old witch. When Luna, now the new publisher of her father's paper _The Quibbler,_ had come to her with yet another unbelievable story, Ginny had smiled and nodded politely, remembering the odd Ravenclaw in her class at Hogwarts. And Luna hadn't changed much since school. Her blond hair was shorter now, but she still kept her wand tucked behind her left ear for safekeeping, still liked to read certain magazines upside down—and she still believed in fairy tales, tales like the legend of a beautiful witch from the 1100s who made a bargain with the devil for immortal life.

While Ginny wasn't sure about the bargain, she did look over Luna's notes and immediately saw the pattern—the change of names, how estates and titles passed from one witch to another, witches who had no background until the moment they arrived to claim their inheritance, the coincidences of timing and places to catastrophic events. And Ginny had to admit, she had been intrigued. Between cases, Ginny had managed to follow the trail of this witch over 800 years, losing it around the time of the fall of Grindelwald. If rumor and innuendo were to be believed, this witch, who went by the name Isabella Abi at that time, had allied herself, politically and romantically, with the dark wizard. When Albus Dumbledore defeated him, Isabella was conspicuously absent. If half of what Ginny had learned about the woman was true, she was grudgingly impressed—this witch, if she existed, knew what she wanted and how to get it.

Ginny glanced up again from her book, catching the eye of a handsome, young reference librarian who was looking at her appreciatively over a stack of books on his desk. _Now, this looks promising._ Ginny slowly raised her arms over head, stretching luxuriously like a cat, allowing him a chance to look over the goods. She lowered her arms and met his eyes, taking her time to look him over as well, slowly licking her lips. She smiled when she saw him blush. Tall, thin but muscular frame, tousled black hair, lovely blue eyes behind a pair of thin framed, scholarly glasses. _Damn, I must have a type. Still, I am on vacation._

Ginny quickly collected her things, stowing her notebook and pens inside a well-worn black leather satchel. She gathered her books and made her way through the maze of tables and study corrals, determined to be a good library patron and return the books she'd used to the reference desk. Then, suddenly, out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of highly polished silver, moving quickly around a stack of books. Curious she stopped and took a step back, recognition dawning on her.

There was Peter Pettigrew, silver hand and all, walking through the library. Without a second thought, Ginny dropped the books she was carrying, pulling her wand from an inside pocket of her black linen jacket. The sound of the books hitting the floor echoed through the quiet library and Pettigrew turned to look in her direction. He bolted, and she ran after him.

"_Signora_!" an anxious voice called, as the young librarian ran around the desk and grabbed her. He started talking to her in heated Italian, pointing to the books she threw to the floor behind her.

"Go away, I don't have time now," she said in disgust, pushing the astounded man aside and running in Pettigrew's direction. She heard the front door of the library close and she raced toward the exit, hitting the doors at full steam. She stumbled out of the library into the piazza outside, crowded with tourists and students. She ran down the front stairs, pushing people aside, and swore. She'd lost him.

Ginny headed back to her hotel room. She'd have to owl the Ministry and let them know that she'd spotted Pettigrew. But first, she was going to send an owl to Dumbledore. He would want to know that the little rat had finally had made an appearance.

…..

"Mother, must we go tonight?" Draco Malfoy winced at the sound of his voice, sullen and whiny. No matter how he aged or matured, his mother was always able to reduce him to the spoiled prat he'd been at Hogwarts.

But Lady Malfoy was too preoccupied with her absolutions to notice. "Draco, we've gone over this before," she explained patiently, brushing her long black hair, now streaked with silver around the temples. "The diFirenzie family is one of the most powerful families on the Continent. We need their support."

Draco gracefully sprawled on the chaise beside the window of his mother's bedroom. He sighed. Even with the little power play he was currently waging with his mother, this room was usually a comfort to him. Perhaps because it was the only room in Malfoy Manor that didn't have Lucius Malfoy's stamp all over it. Instead of the dark woods and rich, dark brocades his father had favored, this room was full of bright reds and golds, delicate antique Queen Anne furniture and soft, delicate fabrics and pillows. But there was no comfort tonight. Draco rose and stood behind his mother at her vanity, looking at her in the mirror. They made a striking pair, a study ice, all platinum blond hair and glacier blue eyes.

"Yes, I know. We need them to support the Plan," he answered drolly.

His mother's eyes narrowed in annoyance. "Yes, son, the 'Plan' as you so blithely put it. Did your father teach you nothing all these years?"

"Yes, mother, I learned a great deal from my father—namely that you can get yourself killed when you play a game that you cannot win." Draco watched his mother's face twist in fury. She slammed down her silver hairbrush, knowing over the collection of exquisite glass bottles on her vanity. _Point for me,_ he thought.

"How dare you call yourself a Malfoy? Did you forget what happened to your father, how they hunted him down like an animal and killed him? How can you live with that memory?"

Something deep inside Draco's eyes moved, and he became still. His voice was even, though icy cold. "You got your pound of flesh for the crime. Don't dare lecture me."

"Not enough, not nearly enough," she argued, ignoring the warning in his voice. "As the Malfoy heir, it is your job to avenge your father…"

Draco lifted a hand to silence his mother. He'd heard enough.

"As the Malfoy heir, it is my job to protect the house and restore us to our former position of power—a position that my father compromised by badly overplaying his hand." Narcissa opened her mouth to protest, but Draco's look kept her silent. "And with all due respect, my lady, I do not need lectures from you on what my job is or how to go about it."

Narcissa dropped her eyes, submissively. She reached back and grabbed his hand and patted it affectionately.

"My Draco, I'm sorry. I should never have questioned your love of your father," she ignored her son's raised eyebrow, "or your loyalty to our house. Lucius' death has left me rather shaken."

But Draco wasn't through. "Never make the mistake again of questioning where my loyalties lie. I will do whatever it takes to restore our power. I do not need, nor will I listen to, lectures from you."

"Of course not, dear. I never meant to imply that you needed my advice. I'm only telling you what you have surely already figured out. There is a power vacuum now that Lord Voldemort is gone."

Narcissa's strident tones were giving Draco a headache; he turned away, barely listening to his mother's commentary, picking up a picture of the three of them. Captured in an intricate silver frame was a younger Narcissa, gazing lovingly at her husband, her hand clutching at his arm as if she could draw his attention her way. And there was Father Lucius, forever regal and handsome in his finely cut robes, looking at the third person in the picture in anger. The object of his disappointment was his own 17-year-old self who slouched sullenly as far away from the man as possible. _How typical._

"Draco, are you listening to me?" Narcissa's voice called him back from his reverie.

"Always, Mother. I am forever your servant."

She ignored his sarcasm. "Nature abhors vacuums, I was explaining to you. This is the perfect opportunity for us to rise to power in Britain, to fill the void before the Lestranges or the Averys try to."

Draco sighed and rubbed his eyes. He was definitely getting a headache. "Enough, Mother. I have spent a lifetime listening to Lucius' plans for my future. I know what is expected of me." She started to argue, but he cut her off. "You've won, Mother. We will go to this exhibit tonight, as you wish. We will meet the diFirenzie Clan and win them over to our side as only the Malfoys can do."

Narcissa's face lit up in a joy, like a child whose been told they were receiving a special gift. "I'm so glad, Draco. It will be a wonderful night, and you will enjoy yourself once you are there, I'm sure." She stood up from her vanity and walked over to her walk-in closet to survey the dresses that had been laid out. "Should I wear the burgundy gown or the emerald gown with the silver trim?" she asked over her shoulder.

Draco looked at his mother quizzically. "The green one, Mother, definitely the green one." He walked out of the room, pretending not to see his mother's satisfied smile.

…

Across Scotland, hidden high in the mountains, sat Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Its Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, sat alone in front of a burning fire.

"Why are you being so stubborn?" Albus Dumbledore asked the flames.

A disembodied voice answered him from the fire. The connection could not hide the voice's cultured, husky voice. "Because I can, Albus. It is my right."

"I received a report that Peter Pettigrew was spotted in Florence, searching for something in the Ufrizzi."

"Florence is a bustling city, full of tourists, Muggle and wizard alike. The Ufrizzi is beautiful to visit. You should go there one day."

"He is a former Death Eater. He stood at Voldemort's right hand."

"He fed Voldemort's snake, that's hardly the same thing. And why should I be afraid of a Death Eater? I breakfast with Death Eaters every morning."

"There is movement on the air, I can feel it. There are plots afoot, and they all seem focused on Florence. It makes me uneasy."

"Old age and guilt, Albus, that's what you are feeling."

"And you don't share these feelings, as well?"

There was a moment of silence. "I share many things with you, old man, but I refuse to surrender to guilt."

"Somehow, old friend, I do not believe that." Dumbledore smiled and popped a lemon drop in his mouth, making satisfied smacking sounds as he sucked on the hard candy.

"Believe what you want. I have no more time for this discussion," the voice continued from the fire. "We revisit this issue every few years when you get a 'feeling.' Nothing ever comes of it. Nothing ever will. The relic is safe with me, and it will remain here where it can do no harm."

"Listen to me, if we destroy it now…"

"No, you listen to me. I'm not Nicholas Flamel. I will not allow you to persuade me to give up my life's work. By the way, how is Nicholas and his lovely wife these days?"

Albus sighed. "They are dead. They died a year after we destroyed the Philosopher's Stone."

"But of course. You don't have much luck saving your friends, do you Albus?"

"Let me see you," Albus said quietly instead, looking down at his entwined hands.

The voice was gentle this time. "No." Then as if sensing that something else needed to be said, it continued. "Take care, old man. I will keep it safe."

The flames sparked and then died down. Albus sat staring at the embers, wondering what else he could have said. A gentle hand grabbed his shoulders. He placed his hand over hers.

"You did everything you could," Minerva McGonagall reassured him.

"No, I didn't. But I've only just started. This time…this time it must end differently. For all our sakes."


	3. Chapter Two

**A Story of Blood**  
**Chapter Two**  
by Crow

_Disclaimer: This story is for personal use only. All characters belong to J. K. Rowling, except Mirat diBorghese and Sirin Abi who belong to the author. No money is being made._

* * *

Luna Lovegood looked expectantly at the wall clock hanging above her office door.

_Almost time_.

Without realizing it, she caught and held her breath until she felt the deep rumble come through the floor below her, sliding up the walls of her office, enveloping the desk and room. _Right on time_. She pushed her chair away from her desk and walked out of the office, across the landing, to the railing that looked down at the open level below. She gazed in wonder at the printing presses that were currently running tomorrow's edition of _The Quibbler_.

When Robert Lovegood decided to use Muggle web presses to print his paper 15 years ago, he was scorned by the wizarding publishing industry. And while he was used to being laughed at behind his back, Robert Lovegood was no fool -- the converted Muggle web press was an operational and financial success. The web's large rollers fed one continuous stream of cream colored paper through its drums, allowing his pressmen mages to perform one spell to bring the paper to life, giving more life-like color and action to the photos. And the web presses were much faster and cheaper than the presses that ran _The Daily Prophet_. When the publishers of that paper quietly switched over to web presses a year later, Robert Lovegood didn't say a word. He had extreme confidence one day he would be proven right about many things.

"Oh, Papa," Luna sighed, watching the workers scrambling around the press, feeding the paper that would print the first "make-ready" of the day. Her father had been dead a little over a year now, and she still missed him deeply. After her mother's death, Luna and her father had become devoted to each other, and to this paper. So it was easy for Luna to step into his shoes and take over as publisher at his death. _Perhaps too easy_. _The Quibbler_ was her home, its sounds and smells familiar to her, its rhythms her rhythms, but she still felt...flat. And that worried her.

Caught up in old memories, her sharp eyes still didn't fail to notice the presence of an aging bull of a man yelling at the pressmen below. His short gray hair and long sideburns framed both sides of a square, eternally flushed face. His collarless white shirt was spotless, if a little wrinkled. A miracle, when you considered the smudges of black ink on his hands and his face, a sort of war paint, she thought with a smile. Luna would have been scared of him if he weren't her godfather, and her business partner.

"Jonas, how goes it?" she called, giving her father's customary greeting at the start of each day's press run. She felt her face blush as all the men below her turned their eyes in her direction. 

"Oh, right enough," he answered her, rubbing his hands across his face and leaving a new streak of black in their place. He turned to his pressman, though his gravely voice easily carried up to her. "That is, if you don't mind your magenta looking peaked or your pictures barely moving. If that's okay, then we're doing fine." Luna smiled. Obviously things were on schedule.

"Alright then. I'll just be in my office, reading...I mean, working." And with that, she escaped, closing the door quickly behind her. She looked around the office, overfilled with books that sat in precarious piles, table tops filled with press sheets, cost projections for the coming quarter, story ideas, more things than Luna could keep track of. She sat at her desk and picked idly at the correspondence there -- bills and a postcard from Ginny Weasley in Florence. _She should be back from her vacation soon. I should see if she found anything._ But instead of writing to her friend, Luna ignored the pile in front of her and picked up a book on alchemy and kabala theories and started reading.

A pecking at the window brought her head up. It was Hedwig. Luna scowled and threw her book down before letting the owl inside. It flew in and found its customary perch beside her desk, waiting expectantly for Luna to take the note tied around her leg.

"Damn him," Luna muttered. Hedwig cocked a head at her. "He cancelled on me again, didn't he?" The owl had no answer, but started to impatiently move from side to side on the perch. Luna went over and unfurled the note, instantly recognizing the sloppy scratch across the paper.

_Luna,_

I'm sorry, but I can't make dinner tonight. Something unexpected came up at work. I know you understand. I'll owl you tomorrow -- I owe you a dinner.

Harry

"Something came up? I know you understand?" she snapped, brandishing the note to Hedwig. "Can you believe this?"

She paced the length of the office. "'I'll owl you tomorrow' he says," she continued, working herself up. _Ever since last week,_ she started thinking, then stopped. _What's the use?_ But for good measure, she picked up a pencil from her desk and chucked it across the room, imaging Harry's face as a target -- and barely missing Jonas' head as he entered the office.

Jonas looked at the fallen missile, face impassive. "I knocked. You didn't answer." He walked in and closed the door behind him, laying down the newly printed sheets of tomorrow's paper. Luna walked over and gave him a shy smile of apology and looked down at the paper, clueless. Jonas took pity on her.

"See this pattern here," he said, pointing to the dots that made up the pictures, "the dots are too large, making the picture look grainy, out of focus. And see here," he continued, pointing to the corner of another photo where a man in black robes ran in and out of the picture frame, leaving the box empty for long moments of time, "he's moving too fast and stays out of the picture too long. We need to slow down the spell so people will see who it's a picture of." 

Luna sighed. Jonas had tried to teach her these things. "You know what needs to be done, Jonas. I trust you."

He reached up and put a hand on her shoulder. "You're more than smart enough to do this, Luna. Your heart just isn't in it, that's all."

Luna shook her head, allowing her pale hair to cover the tears that suddenly formed in her eyes. 

"It's hard trying to find your place in the world," he continued softly. "The trick is not just stepping into someone else's shoes. I'd say it's the same for the boy. He's trying to find his way too." And with that Jonas turned and headed for the door, pausing and looking at her over his shoulder.

"Of course, I wouldn't let him get away with too much crap if I were you." Luna smiled as he exited the office. She could hear him yelling at the pressman downstairs through her closed door.

"Well, of course she didn't like it. I told you the magenta was still wrong. And don't get me started again on that cover spell." 

Feeling better than she had in a while, Luna walked back to her desk and scribbled a hasty note to Harry. She tied it to Hedwig's leg and scratched the owl under her chin. "Be sure to bite him for me when you see him, okay? He deserves it." Hedwig cooed and flew out the open window.

:::

Once a year, the diFirenzie family of Florence, Italy opened their estate to the most influential wizarding families from around the world.

Their party was the event of the season, with invitations issued by a set of criteria that was as hotly discussed afterwards as was the gowns worn by the attending witches. It seemed that almost everyone tried to cully favor with the family -- their wealth and political and business influences attracted the power hungry, the ambitious, the desperate, and the most deadly.

For Draco and Narcissa Malfoy, these types of affairs were common, though never to this scale. In their family's glory days, wizards and witches would come to their manor to curry favor with Lucius. And Lucius himself had been a regular at the diFirenzie fete, though he never trusted his wife or only son to join him on these occasions, no matter how much Narcissa or Draco pouted or whined. It was too important an event, he would drawl, before turning his back on them with a sweep of his finest-cut black wool cape.

But the glory days of the Malfoys had long passed, Draco thought bitterly, squandered away by careless alliances and gaudy displays of wealth that impressed no one of consequence, especially not the diFirenzies. As Draco and his mother took the portkey to the front doors of the estate, Draco wondered for the first time if his father had been right, if he was out of his depth in this group. His trained eye took in and priced the fine marble columns and floors, the rich tapestries, and some of the choicest pieces of art in both the wizarding and Muggle worlds, chosen not so much to the personal taste of the house's illustrious inhabitants, but to impress all who entered their foyer. 

An incessant tugging on his sleeve brought his attention back to his companion.

"Look at that painting," Narcissa whispered excitedly, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. "And look at what those women are wearing, that necklace must cost..."

"Mother, control yourself," Draco snapped. "We are the Malfoys. We are here to impress, not to be impressed." He winced at the sharp tone of his voice-all of a sudden he sounded like his father. 

Narcissa's face hardened and then reset in a cool mask. "But of course, Draco. Forgive my stupidity," she said, then turned on her heel and left him standing alone in the hallway. He thought of going after her but only for a moment. He'd do better on his own tonight.

And then, by second nature, Draco Malfoy began to work the room. Instinct, coupled with careful research, taught him which wizards and witches needed his attention, and who could easily be brushed aside and ignored. He knew which women, for example, should be flirted with, whose old eyes and shaking limbs might benefit from his icy beauty and youth. He had learned at an early age how to hold a wrinkled hand just a moment longer than was called for, how to place a breathy kiss on paper-thin skin, how a thumb rubbed just right across the back of the hand or the inside of the wrist could open doors with powerful husbands and sons. Draco was always well liked in these situations.

Taking a moment for himself, he snatched a flute of champagne from a passing house elf and moved to the fireplace, the perfect position to be seen and yet to stand back and catalog the machinations of the party around him. He saw his own mother sitting on a red velvet chaise lounge talking animatedly with an auburn haired woman he didn't recognize. He winced, hoping that she wasn't boring her companion, and then his eyes were drawn and caught by a woman standing beside the patio doors.

Draco didn't recognize her. She was tall and thin, dressed in a black tunic-style gown that fell to the floor but left her arms gloriously bare. Her long black hair was swept up and off her slender neck, framing an olive complexioned face with wide, dark eyes and a full red mouth. Her only jewelry was a pair of garnet and diamond drop earrings, strikingly elegant compared to the other gaudy displays of wealth around the room. Draco was intrigued.

And she was bored. Draco rolled his eyes when he noticed her companion, Auguste Compton, the obscenely rich manufacturer of the Nimbus line of Quidditch brooms, and understood why. The effusive man had blocked the woman by the wall and was talking animatedly to her in an overloud voice. He kept leaning toward her, but her crossed arms and crystal tumbler of liquor protected a slender margin of space between the two. Feeling mischievous, Draco drowned his champagne and headed in their direction. _This should be fun._

"And then those damn French manufacturers thought they could weasel in on our market," Auguste's nasal voice droned, "but they just don't have the high quality wood like our British brooms." He turned when he noticed Draco standing at his elbow. "Do they, young Master Malfoy? You played a bit of Quidditch yourself, didn't you?"

Draco bowed his head at his two companions, his eyes never leaving the woman's face. _Was that a smile I see forming on her lips?_ "But, of course, Auguste," he answered. "I did play some Quidditch at school and only rode your finest brooms." He looked to the woman. "Forgive me, I am Draco Malfoy." He held out a hand to her in greeting.

Ignoring his hand, she took a long sip of her drink. "I know," she said, her voice deep and throaty.

"Yes, you were a seeker, weren't you, Draco? Played against Potter, am I right?" Auguste continued. Draco winced, but continued looking at the woman.

"Yes, I played against Potter," he said. The woman had finished her drink. "Here, let me get you another one," he offered. "What are you having?"

"Old Ogden's," she said, gratefully handing over her tumbler. Draco turned and was pleased to see a house elf standing at his elbow, two tumblers of whiskey ready on a shining silver tray. Draco took the drinks; handing one to his companion, he allowed his fingers to briefly touch her long, cool fingers.

"Thank you," she said, taking another sip of drink. "The diFirenzies believe in only the best." She gestured at their surroundings. "The best furnishings, the best parties," She took another long sip. "Ahh, and the best liquor."

"I saw Potter play once," Auguste continued. "He was incredibly fast and nimble. The best seeker I've ever seen. Too bad he chose to be an Auror instead of going pro."

"Are you friends with the family?" Draco asked the woman. 

"Only slightly. I'm more of a business acquaintance really," she answered. "But it is against my religion to miss a party like this. You never know who you will meet on nights like these." She gave Draco a slow, sensual smile.

"Yes, indeed. Some of the people here are quite...fascinating," Draco agreed. "But I'm afraid I do not know your name."

She smiled. "Neither does he," she said instead, gesturing to Auguste with her drink.

Draco smiled back. "Auguste is ignorant of many things."

"Eh?" said Auguste, stopping to breathe.

"I was just saying, Auguste, that the Baron Orfrey over there," Draco vaguely gestured behind him, "was mentioning a big venture he was going into with the Spanish lumber consortium."

"Really," Auguste said, rubbing his chin with eager fingers. "Fine lumber, is it?"

"Oh, the best, hard and light, perfect for why, flying," Draco said, as if just putting two and two together. He leaned forward conspiratorially. "And I hear the rights to his land and lumber can go cheap. Orfrey is deep in debt to Gringotts. And you know how those bloody goblins are when it comes to collecting on a loan."

"Yes, yes," Auguste said excitedly. "Would you please excuse me?" he murmured, quickly turning and heading back into the crowd.

Draco heard his companion laugh. "My hero," she said, saluting him with her drink.

"Think nothing of it, my lady. I am forever at your service."

"You are not like your father at all," she said, looking at him with a knowing eye.

"My father?" Draco managed, feeling suddenly cold.

"Yes, Lucius. Oh, you look like him. And you work a room like him. But there's something different about you, a steel to your eye he never had," she finished, obviously unaware of Draco's discomfort.

"How did you know my father?" he managed.

She shrugged, an elegant gesture. "I was a business acquaintance."

"And what do you do to have so many business acquaintances?" Draco asked, though his tone made it clear that he no longer cared for her answer. She raised an eyebrow but continued on.

"I do whatever it takes for a girl to get by," she answered. "What do you do?"

"I do whatever it takes to undo Lucius' folly and restore my family to its rightful position," he snapped, cursing himself for speaking too much. He took another long swig of his drink, cheered at the burning feeling that wiped away his sudden chill.

"Is that your mother trying to get your attention?" she asked suddenly, looking over his shoulder. 

Draco cursed inwardly, and then spared a glance over his shoulder. Yes, it was Narcissa, waving animatedly for him to come over and meet her companion. He sighed.

"Yes, that's Narcissa." He made no move to join her yet. "But surely you know her, if you and Lucius were...acquaintances."

She chose to ignore the sarcasm in Draco's voice. "Oh no, Lucius never mentioned you or your mother."

Draco felt an odd pang of regret. _What for? Am I sorry Lucius never mentioned me to his whores?_

"Which is a shame," she continued, "I would have loved meeting you before now."

Draco raised an eyebrow, knowing that he was being played, but insanely pleased with the compliment nonetheless. "Well, we have met now," he drawled, bowing to her again. "But I really must attend to my mother before she has a fit. Thank you for the fascinating encounter."

"But it was too brief," she said, reaching and touching his sleeve to hold him there a moment longer. "Are you staying in Florence, or going back to England tonight?"

"Actually, we are staying. Mother wants to do some shopping. We have rooms booked at _Hotel Helvetia e Bristol_, across from the Strozzi Palace."

"Then perhaps I could take you to lunch tomorrow," she offered. "I could show you our fair city while your mother squanders away some of your fortune."

Draco had to admit he was intrigued. "And who, pray tell, would be calling for me tomorrow at say, one?"

She smiled, squeezing his arm. "Mirat," she answered. "Mirat diBorghese."

"Well, Mirat," he liked the sound of her name coming off his tongue. "I would be honored to have lunch with you tomorrow."

"Till one then," she said, walking past him and back into the crowd. "It was very nice to finally meet you Draco Malfoy."

:::

The argument had already started by the time Ginny arrived at McGregor's office.

She could hear their raised voices from the other side of the closed door. She looked at Annie, McGregor's assistant, who sat outside the office watching Ginny with a wry smile. _Are you going in?_ she asked with a raised eyebrow. Ginny shook her head no. _If they don't need me..._

"I told you, she's a menace," Jones was saying.

"Oh, give her a break, Jonesy," Harry interrupted. "She didn't do anything wrong."

"Wrong? She brandished a wand in front of crowd of tourists. I'm surprised she didn't start hexing Muggles left and right."

"She said she spotted Pettigrew and was trying to chase him down," McGregor said. "If that's the case, she would have been stupid to chase a Death Eater without a wand. And Ginny is not stupid."

"She says she saw Pettigrew, but we don't have any proof," Jones scoffed. "No one has seen the rat since Harry here killed Voldemort."

"With Ginny's help," Harry interjected.

"Yeah, whatever," Jones grumbled. "Pettigrew more than likely was killed, or eaten by that damn snake. Why would he show up in Florence of all places just when Ginny Weasley has been sent there on suspension?"

"Vacation," McGregor corrected.

"Whatever, Mac," Jones said. "Call it what you want. We all know what it was. Weasley went too far interrogating that suspect, and you know it."

"Listen here, Jones," Harry started. Ginny could hear swift movement across the room. "You don't know anything about Ginny, what she's done, or what's happened to her. Just back off. _Now_."

"Harry, Harry," Jones was backpedaling now, Ginny could tell. "We have no problem with you."

"We?" McGregor asked quietly.

"The men, _your_ men," Jones added. "Harry here, he's one of us. We can count on him. That Weasley, well no one would work with her willingly."

"I do," Harry said quietly. Ginny knew her friend; he was getting angry.

"Of course you do, Harry," Jones said. "You're the Boy Who Lived. You're charmed. I'm just..."

"A stupid asshole," Harry finished.

"Now listen here," Jones started. Ginny could hear a chair scooting quickly against the floor. "I'm not going to stand here and let some kid talk to me like that." 

_Time to make an entrance._

Ginny threw open the door and strode in, head high. As she had imagined, McGregor was sitting behind his desk, looking pained and angry. Harry and Jones were standing toe to toe across from McGregor. _Men_.

"Hello, boys. Did I miss anything while I was away?" she asked, throwing herself into the uncomfortable chair across from McGregor. Harry smirked and walked away from Jones, who stood there staring stupidly at Ginny.

McGregor sighed. He rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Can we get back to the subject at hand, please?" he asked the room.

"Of course, Mac," Ginny said cheerfully. "Jonesy here was explaining why I was dangerous and why no one would work with me." Jones flushed, and then leaned down over Ginny, his sour breath washing over her.

"I know all about the likes of you," he sneered.

"The likes of me?" she asked innocently. "Girls, you mean? Why I'm thrilled for you Jonesy. Your mom will be too. By the way, did you get my postcard from Florence?"

"Ginny," McGregor warned.

"Oh, you think you're so funny," Jones continued, "but I've seen your type before. You're a thrill seeker. Your life is empty, so you fill it up with danger and violence. You're a bad auror and a danger to everyone around you."

McGregor's hand crashed down on his desk, making them jump.

"That's enough!" he roared, standing up slowly. "The last time I looked, Jones, I was in charge here. I pick the aurors in this department -- not you or the men outside. We have a job to do, and we will all work together to accomplish it. Got it?"

Jones stood up and walked to the window. "Yeah, I got it," he finally grumbled.

Ginny opened her mouth to say something. "And you," McGregor said, rounding on her. "Shut up." She bit back a snide comment and waited.

McGregor sat back down at his desk. "Now, let's start again." He looked at Ginny. "Ginny, are you sure it was Pettigrew?"

"Yes," she said. "I'd know him anywhere."

"What did you do when you saw him?"

"I pulled out my wand and tried to chase him down. I ran into someone, which caused Pettigrew to notice me. He ran outside, but by the time I got there he was gone. I immediately owled you to let you know what happened."

"You owled Dumbledore too, didn't you?" McGregor asked quietly. Jones made a strangled sound over by the window. Harry threw him an evil look.

"Yes," she answered.

"Why?"

She shrugged. "Because Dumbledore would want to know. He would take the threat seriously."

"Where do your loyalties lie?" Jones finally demanded. A look from McGregor shut him up.

"Leave," McGregor ordered Jones.

"Excuse me?" he gasped.

"I said leave. I'll talk to you later." Jones stood there dumbfounded; even Ginny and Harry were amazed, and exchanged puzzled glances. "Fine," Jones clipped, walking out of the office straight-backed. He softly closed the door behind him. McGregor sighed.

"For all his faults, Jones is a good auror, and I don't like doing that to him," he cautioned. Harry sat down beside Ginny.

McGregor pulled out an envelope and handed it to Ginny. "It seems that Dumbledore takes the 'threat,' as you call it, very seriously. He wants you and Harry to meet him in Florence tomorrow."

"What did you say?" Harry asked, watching his supervisor's face.

McGregor squirmed and looked out the window of his office at the bleak sky outside. "I don't know what's going on here, and obviously Dumbledore knows more than he's telling us. That's dangerous, and I don't like it. But he stood up against the bad guys when no one else would. For that alone, I'm willing to let him have his way here." He looked seriously at the two young people in front of him. "But remember, you are my people now. I want you to let me know what's going on, how we can help you. Keep me informed when you can and try not to do anything too stupid. Understood?"

Ginny and Harry nodded and walked out of the office. There was nothing left to say. They noticed Jones having a heated discussion with a group of aurors. Wonder who they are talking about? The two partners walked over to their desk and sat down across from one another. Ginny rubbed her shoulder, trying to relieve some of the tension that had settled there during the fight. She'd have another headache by tonight.

"Shoulder bothering you?" Harry asked quietly. Ginny didn't like the way he was staring at her.

"No more than usual," she answered. Then, when he didn't say anything else, she snapped. "What is it?" He shrugged. "What's the matter," she continued, "don't you want to tell me how dangerous I've become?"

"Ginny, what happened in that interrogation room?"

She looked down at her desk and didn't say anything.

"I'm your partner. I'm your friend. Trust me," he pleaded.

"How's Luna?" she asked instead. Harry gave her a hard look, then started shuffling papers on his desk.

"She's fine," he muttered.

"Are you still seeing her?"

"I wouldn't call it 'seeing'," Harry started, before a clerk came up to Harry's desk, holding Hedwig on his raised arm. Harry murmured his thanks and put his owl on her perch beside his desk. He reached to pull off the note, and Hedwig nipped at his fingers.

"Ouch! Why did you do that?" he demanded, sucking on his finger while he read the note. His face flushed and he threw the note away without a word. Ginny watched the proceedings with amusement.

"Seems she's not the only one who is mad at you, huh?" she guessed.

"Want to grab some dinner before we head home and pack?" he asked. "Merlin knows what Dumbledore is up to this time. We'll probably need all the rest we can get."

Ginny nodded and followed Harry out of the office. She was definitely going to have a headache tonight.


	4. Chapter Three

**A Story of Blood  
by Crow  
**

**Chapter Three**

Draco Malfoy smothered a sigh of frustration when he joined his mother for breakfast the next morning. She was in one of those moods. He could tell by the way she attacked her soft boiled egg, cracking the shell with violent taps of her silver spoon.

Draco sat down across from her and signaled to the house elf to bring him his cappuccino, anticipating the dark, chicory smell of the brew.

"Well, who was she?" Narcissa finally asked. Draco raised an eyebrow and opened up the morning's paper.

"Who, mother?" he said, as he turned the page.

"Lucius's trollop," she sneered. "Or have you forgotten her so quickly."

"Hardly, mother," he said, taking another drink of his creamy coffee. _This should be good._ "Her name is Mirat diBorghese. She's coming here at one to take me on a tour of the city."

There was a moment of dead silence. "And here I thought you were smarter than your father."

Draco put down the paper and stared across the table. "Say whatever it is you have to say, Mother. Then consider the subject closed."

She shrugged. "You will do whatever pleases you, as have all the Malfoy men have in the past."

She continued eating her breakfast unconcernedly. When she was through chewing she said, "I'm going to be spending quite a bit of money today, Draco. Sonia diFirenze...You remember Sonia—the heir to the diFirenze fortune I was making friends with while you were flirting with the slut? She is taking me shopping today. As we are the Malfoys, I need to impress her." She smiled sweetly at him.

Draco thought back to the auburn haired woman his mother had introduced him to at the party the night before. He had not been impressed, not until his mother had named the woman. Sonia diFirenze was his mother's age, as finely dressed and elegantly jeweled as any woman at the party. But something in the way she laughed—_giggled really_, Draco thought with a grimace—had put him off. She had been vacuous and easy to intimidate. A perfect match for his mother, he decided.

"Excellent, Mother. You did make quite the catch last night," he commended her.

"Yes I did. I spent a year abroad at an arts program during school and met her then. It gave me an opening. The diFirenzes are great art collectors. It's where they made their fortune."

"But it's her mother, Catarina, who controls the fortune."

Narcissa shuddered. "Yes, she's a hateful woman. Sonia is the opening we need to the clan's prestige and fortune. One day she'll control everything."

Draco nodded his head. "Then I leave Signora diFirenze in your capable hands, Mother. Spend what you will."

"Thank you, Draco. I am forever your servant." Draco chose to ignore the sarcasm in his mother's voice and returned to his paper.

Ginny Weasley gazed out the tower's balcony to the streets lining the Arno below. She watched in fascination as the tourists crowded the nearby Ponte Veccio, noses stuck in guidebooks and haphazardly folded maps, barely looking at the splendor around them. Not that she had spent much time as a tourist herself during her last visit to Florence. But since she and Harry had taken a Ministry Portkey to the side of the Hotel Lungarno this morning, Ginny had been unable to escape the sounds and smells of the city.

If Paris was a city that rationalized away sights of magic, then Florence was the exact opposite—the Italian motto of _Do As You Will _applied not only to pleasing yourself in food or wine, but in using magic as well. Muggle natives of the city turned a blind eye to any unexplained phenomena they glimpsed, and the tourists were just blind to anything not printed in their books. Italian wizards and witches could live and travel in the same world with Muggles, but, respectfully, they tried to keep a low profile.

Perhaps it was being closer to the heart of the city this time, with a breathtaking panoramic vista of the river and city and the spires of the Duomo to the east that lifted Ginny's mood. The Hotel Lungarno, Dumbledore explained, was owned by an old friend of the Headmaster's and would be a perfect place to base their "operations." Operations, that was the key word here. Three hours with Dumbledore, all they had done was talk, and still Ginny was no closer to really learning what the wily wizard had in mind. And now all she wanted to do was retire to her suite with its rich, dark carpeting and antique furniture. There was a walnut four-poster canopied bed calling her name.

She closed her eyes and smiled as the cool air hit her face. If she tried really hard, she could block out the sounds of Dumbledore and Harry talking in the room behind her.

"Are we bothering you, Miss Weasley?" Dumbledore called from the sitting room in an impatient voice. _Damn. _Ginny sighed and opened her eyes.

She didn't turn around. "No, not at all. Feel free to call me when we get to the heart of the matter." She could feel the tension behind her, but she wasn't sorry. Harry, for reasons she couldn't understand, still held Dumbledore in awe, an awe that left him ever patient and ever willing to play the Headmaster's incessant games. Games like pulling strings and calling them here for an unspecified time, for unspecified reasons. Ginny wasn't in the mood for games.

"Ginny..." Harry started, an edge to his voice. Ginny's shoulders tightened up and a familiar pain shot through her arm. She wasn't in the mood for a lecture either.

"No," Dumbledore interrupted. "She is right. This conversation is difficult for me. I don't know how to begin, so I'm not beginning at all." Ginny turned around, leaning against the railing with her arms crossed in front of her. She raised an eyebrow as if to say _Well, then. _Dumbledore sighed again and rubbed his eyes. Ginny suddenly felt sorry for the old man and quietly walked inside, taking an armchair opposite the wizard.

"The last time I was in Florence..." Dumbledore began again, then trailed off. He shook his head. "I'm going to stray from the 'heart of the matter', as Miss Weasley so aptly put it, if I'm not careful," he said. Ginny flushed in embarrassment, but he didn't seem to notice. "I believe I know what Pettigrew was after when you saw him, Ginny. If I'm right, we must stop him, at any cost." He looked at Ginny with grim determination. "Is that direct enough for you?"

She nodded her head. "Yes. Now you can expand and explain what it is he's after."

"I believe that Pettigrew is after a relic—the blood of a martyr almost 900 years old."

"And what does this blood do?" Harry asked.

"The martyr, St. Pantaleon, survived nine different attempts on his life. It is said that drinking a potion made from St. Pantaleon's blood will give the drinker near-perfect immortality: the ability to heal almost all wounds, repel any illness, and live...no one is sure how long."

"How do you know about this?" Ginny asked. "I've never heard about it before."

"I learned about the relic in the 1940s when the Resistance uncovered a plot to locate and steal the relic, which, at that time, was being held by the Roman Catholic Church."

"The church?" Harry asked. "You mean this is a Muggle artifact?"

"Yes. We don't know if Pantaleon was a wizard or not, but the odds are good he was. He was a physician who, with little formal training, was able to heal thousands of people. I believe he possessed magical abilities, whether he knew about them or not. His death only added potency to the power in his blood. Potency for us, but potency for the church as well. He died a martyr, killed for refusing to denounce his faith. The relic has power for both sides."

"Grindelwald was after the relic?" Ginny guessed.

"Yes, he and the Muggle dictator Adolf Hitler both sought the relic. In the period leading up to, and during World War II, Hitler developed an unhealthy obsession for occult objects, fueled, of course, by Grindelwald. They set their sights on finding and deciphering this relic. I was part of a team assigned to stop them."

"And you did, didn't you?" Harry asked.

"Yes, we did...at a great price. I lost one of my partners that day, a good friend, a good man," Dumbledore looked down at his hands and stopped speaking. Ginny, who knew all about facing the ghosts of the past, let him sit for a moment.

"So where is the relic now?" she finally asked.

"It's in the possession of a powerful family here in Florence, the diFirenzes."

Ginny's faced turned cold. "The diFirenzes? How could you let a family of Death Eaters have the relic after that? What were you thinking?"

Dumbledore glared at the girl. "Before you start lecturing me, Miss Weasley, you should first hear me out. Catarina diFirenze, now head of the family, worked for the Resistance, though her position has been kept a closely guarded secret—_a secret we must still keep_. What better place to keep the relic safe, we thought, then to hide it in plain sight with the Death Eaters?"

"That makes no sense," she argued, looking at Harry, who also looked confused. "You trusted this woman?"

"Yes, I trusted her."

"But you don't trust her now," she guessed.

"I...don't know."

"But if the Death Eaters have the relic, what keeps them from using it? What kept Voldemort from taking and using it?" Harry asked.

"Fear. Fear of the diFirenzes, no matter where their political leanings lay. Even Voldemort couldn't just take the relic from them. Catarina diFirenze is the Death Eaters's, and our, best weapon to unlock the relic's secrets."

"You mean you don't know how to use the relic?" Harry asked. Ginny glared at her partner. Why must he always assume Dumbledore knew everything?

"No, but I've seen how deadly the relic can be when used incorrectly," Dumbledore answered. "There are two pieces of information you need to use the relic: the directions for making the blood potion and the charm that sets the blood's magic free. It is rumored that Voldemort possessed a diary that told how to make the potion."

"And where is the book now?" Ginny asked tightly.

"We don't know. It was never found after his death."

"And the charm?" Harry asked.

Dumbledore shrugged. "Catarina diFirenze has spent her life trying to decipher the secrets of the relic. She's no closer today than she was fifty years ago."

"Why?" Ginny demanded. "Why is she playing around with something so dangerous?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "I don't know. Because no one has figured it out, I would guess, knowing her."

"But if the relic falls into the wrong hands..." Harry started. "Why not just destroy it?"

"She will not give it up."

"Excuse me?" Ginny said. "She won't give it up?"

"No," Dumbledore said, sitting back in his chair. "She won't."

"And that's good enough for you? Whose side is she on now, anyway?"

"Catarina diFirenze is on her own side, now and forever. Beyond that, I can't say," the old man said, looking at the two of them. "I do not know where the relic is, so I cannot just 'destroy' it. I can't make her give up the relic, and I'm am loathe to start an all-out war with her. There's no telling what she'd do then. What we need is to circumvent her plans with our own."

"And do we have a plan?" Harry asked, looking suddenly very tired. Ginny looked at her partner and felt sorry for him. Harry's entire life had been shaped by people working from the sidelines, hatching schemes or not sharing the whole truth with him until it was too late. Dumbledore was playing games again with them. And good old Harry, he was willing to go along with it once again, no matter what the cost.

"Oh yes, a plan of sorts," Dumbledore answered, looking pleased with himself. "We're going to steal the relic and learn how to unleash its powers ourselves."

"That's _not_ a good plan," Ginny said. "It's stupid and dangerous." Dumbledore shot her an irritated look, but she didn't care. "We need to get the relic and destroy it. Period."

"That sounds like a plan to me," Harry murmured.

"It's never that easy," Dumbledore said. "It's never that easy."

If you'd asked Draco how he and Mirat were going to spend their day, it wouldn't have been visiting museums and churches in Florence. No, when Mirat showed up at his room precisely at one, dressed provocatively in a short skirt showcasing her long, shapely, tanned legs, dusty pink toes peaking out from a pair of Italian sandals, he thought they had other plans. Large sunglasses shaded her eyes from his, and he thrilled at the mystery of her. He couldn't figure her out.

That fact excited him, made him almost forget he was with one of Lucius's conquests, someone who was more interested in the Malfoy coffers than in him. But he was used to that quality in the women he slept with. He never let it get in the way of his pleasure.

So when she said their next stop was Naples, Draco raised an eyebrow but nodded his head and Apparated with her. Obviously, there was something...more personal...waiting for them at the end of their trip. But no, it was yet another musty old palace, the _Palazzo_ _Sangro di Sansevero_.

Draco smothered a sigh. Mirat merely smiled and pulled him along behind a group of American tourists.

"Legend has it that this palace," the tour guide was explaining with a grin, "is haunted by a strange, spectral presence." Draco groaned under his breath before catching sight of a female ghost glaring at the tour guide. She was speaking heatedly to the man, though Draco could not understand the fast and furious Italian she threw his way.

"In 1590, Prince Carlo Gesualdo, overcome by jealousy and rage, murdered his young wife and her lover. It is said that he also killed his tiny son because of a resemblance, real or imagined, to the wife's lover. And yet, after the murders, Gesualdo went on to compose some of the most beautiful and innovative pieces in the madrigal repertoire. You'll hear many of them performed tonight during our concert."

The ghost spit at the tour guide's feet then moved on in disgust. No one paid her any mind.

"We are not staying for a madrigal performance," Draco told his companion.

"Of course not. There's something I want to show you. You'll like it," With a mysterious smile, she led him out of the palazzo and through a marble door next door.

"Another chapel," Draco drawled. "Who could have guessed?"

"Not just another chapel," Mirat corrected as they walked into the building. _This was rather tiresome_, Draco thought. He merely glanced at the sculptures and the frescos on the wall, mentally acknowledging their beauty but bored at this point.

As he followed Mirat through the chapel, his gaze, which had lingered on her legs as she strode through the building in front of him, caught a pattern of symbols forming in the frescos of the chapel. Alchemic symbols, he was sure of it. He stopped and his eyes moved from side to side, catching and naming them. They looked like symbols for making the Philosopher's Stone, he thought at first. But something wasn't right, the ingredients couldn't work in that combination...

"You noticed it too," Mirat said, watching him shrewdly.

"Yes. What are alchemic symbols doing in a Christian church?"

"Masonic symbols, actually. This chapel was built by Prince Raimondo Sansevero, a brilliant alchemist who brought Free Masonry to Italy. He was a general and advisor to the King of Naples. His real interests, however, were the studies of alchemy, mechanics, and the sciences in general."

"How nice," Draco intoned, as he walked off, caught up in the sights around him. _There's the sign for quicksilver. Makes sense_, he thought, _you would need it in order to_...

"Raimondo was an incredible man. Smart, ambitious...much like you," Mirat continued, watching Draco with approval. "He invented many fascinating devices for the time: an 'eternal flame,' using chemical compounds of his own invention; a carriage with wooden horses which, driven by an internal mechanical system, could travel on both land and water; and a printing press which could print different colors in a single impression."

"Impressive for a Muggle of his time," Draco murmured, barely listening as he continued scouring the room for more symbols. _If only he had a piece of paper, perhaps... _Mirat's tug on his arm turned his attention back to her.

"He was more than a mere Muggle. He was a genius. And yet, there were riddles he couldn't decipher. Riddles," she continued, "that he hid in the artwork of this chapel, so that one day someone might follow his work to its conclusion."

"How do you know so much about him?" Draco asked, turning his attention to her.

She shrugged. "There's more," she promised instead, leading him past the frescos and sculptures and down a flight of marble steps into the cooler depths of the basement below.

There were Muggles crammed into this lower chamber, and Draco grimaced. But when he caught sight of what they were focused on, he understood their fascination. He inched toward the two large alcoves in the wall. There, before him, were the remains of a man and woman. Their skin had been removed to reveal the muscles, arteries, nervous system beneath, their faces contorted into an eternal grimace. They were perfectly preserved.

"After Raimondo's death, they found this chamber and _them_," Mirat whispered in Draco's ear.

"Are they real?" he asked, itching to touch them. They certainly looked real. He scowled at the tourists who posed beside the couple, taking infantile pictures to show back home to friends and relatives.

Mirat nodded. "After their deaths, Raimondo replaced their blood with formulas of his own making."

"Why?"

Instead of answering, Mirat took Draco's hand and led him past the gruesome couple, down a hallway that was blessedly free from Muggles. Without a word, she turned and pushed him against the wall. She leaned against him and kissed him, her tongue forcing its way into his mouth, her body rubbing against his, her hands sliding down his chest and toward his belt. Draco blinked, shocked and confused, the musky perfume she wore clouding his mind and making it hard to think. Finally, with regret, he grabbed her hands and pulled her away from him.

"What game are you playing?" he asked. She moved to kiss him again, but he was too strong and she gave up.

"I want you to help me," she said, stepping back with a frown and idly smoothing down her skirt. _Well, that was quick,_ Draco thought. _She's not used to being turned down when she throws herself at a man. _It made Draco feel more in a charge of situation that was quickly moving out of his control.

"Help you do what?"

"Finish Raimondo's work."

Draco looked back down the hallway toward the macabre scene in the antechamber. He thought back to the symbols on the wall upstairs. "Why me?" he asked.

"I like you," she started, then seeing the look on his face she stopped and sighed. "You're smart. You're good at potions." Draco's eyes narrowed at that personal bit of information, but he didn't interrupt. "You have the resources and the contacts to facilitate the work."

"What work?" he asked. "Mummifying bodies for bloody tourists to gawk at? Why in the world would I want to do that."

Mirat laughed. "That was just an experiment, silly boy. His work was far more important than mere tourist titillations."

"I'm thrilled for him. I still don't see why I'd want to get involved with this," he stopped and gave her a hard look, "or you, for that matter. I don't like trollops with personal agendas."

Mirat smiled at him, a large predatory grin that couldn't disguise the steel in her eyes.

"We all have personal agendas, young Malfoy. But I also have an offer for you. How would you like to live forever?"


End file.
